The Cat Who Moved a Mountain

"Oh, yes, I'm perfectly all right now, and I know this road very well."

He watched her drive away. It had stopped raining, and she had forgotten her umbrella—her scarf, too, he later discovered. Returning them would be a good opportunity to ask a few more questions, he thought as he massaged his moustache.

Qwilleran sequestered the cats in the kitchen in preparation for the doctor's visit. Otherwise they would sense the hospital connection and go flying to the farthest corner of the house. As he climbed upstairs awkwardly to shave and dress, he wondered which of the two doctors would respond. He rather hoped for Inez; a woman might have a more comforting way with the sensitive and high-strung Yum Yum. He also wondered if he should consider reducing his consumption of coffee. Polly had urged him to temper its potency, but the sudden demise of Wilson Wix brought the message home.

It was John Wickes who arrived at five-fifteen, a serious-looking man with large eyeglasses and a thoughtful way of speaking. "Having a little trouble?" he asked soothingly.

Qwilleran described Yum Yum's latest aberration.

"Where is she?"

"They're both locked up in the kitchen. Follow me."

They found the Siamese on the kitchen table, guarding the remains of the Chocolate Whoppers—a mound of nuts and chocolate bits. Everything else had been devoured.

When the little black bag appeared, however, Yum Yum rose vertically in space and landed on top of a kitchen cabinet. Koko, knowing instinctively that the thermometer and needle were not for him, moved not a whisker.

"Leave her alone," Wickes said quietly. "She'll come down when she's ready."

"Then pull up a chair and let's have some five o'clock refreshment," Qwilleran suggested. "Whiskey? Wine?"

"A little scotch, I think. It's been a busy day: vacationers walking in with sick cats and dogs, the usual patients for vaccinations, ear crops, spaying, etc. . . . plus surgical emergencies. Inez did a caesarean on a pregnant cat today, and I had to do a sex change on a male because of blockage. So ... yes, I'll have a little scotch—against the weather."

"Do you always have this much rain in the Potatoes?"

"No, it's very unusual and a little frightening," the doctor said, maintaining his unruffled tone of voice. "The river is running so high we've had to sandbag the clinic property, and here on the mountain I'm worried about Lake Batata. It was man-made by damming the Batata Falls, and if the heavy downpour continues, it could burst its bounds and flood the mountainside. Inez and I are ready to evacuate if necessary."

His matter-of-fact comment led Qwilleran to ask, "Are you serious about this, John?"

"Dead serious."

"Who converted the waterfall into a lake?"

"Hawkinfield, about ten or fifteen years ago."

"Did he get permission?"

"I doubt whether he thought it necessary."

"How well did you know him?"

"I bought my lot from him and took care of his dogs. Beyond that I didn't care to go."

Qwilleran said, "I suppose Lucy was one of them."

"The Doberman? She was the last of his dogs. Has she been hanging around?"

"Once she brought me home when I was lost in the woods, for which I was grateful, and another time she came begging for food, although she's as big as a barrel."

"Lucy was always obese. 1 tried to convince Hawkin-field that he was hurting his dog by overfeeding, but it was useless to try to tell him anything, and it was never wise to oppose him too strongly. He had ways of retaliating."

"Where were you and Inez when you heard about the murder?"

"Where were we?" he mused. "We were spending Father's Day in the valley with our sons and their families. Someone phoned us the news, and it wasn't greeted with much sorrow. John Jr. is the gadfly on the board of education, and my younger son runs the county animal shelter. Hawkinfield persecuted both of them in editorials because they wouldn't dance to his tune. The man was unhinged, but he had power. That's the worst kind."

"I assume you'jre a native Spud," Qwilleran said.

"I was born in the valley, but we were all Taters originally. My forebears drifted down out of the mountains and adapted to valley environment—and valley mentality." He drained his glass.

Since Yum Yum showed no intention of deserting her perch, Qwilleran poured again. "Vonda Wix gave me a brief rundown on the genealogy of your family."

"Yes, no matter how you spell it, we all stem from a prolific old stud in the fifteenth century. One of his de-scendents settled here in the early nineteenth and operated a grist mill, chiefly to grind corn for the moonshiners. Making homemade whiskey was traditional among the pioneers as part of family medicine, you know. There's still a little 'midnight farming' being done on Little Potato."

At that moment there were two soft thumps to be heard, and Yum Yum descended from her lofty perch. She walked slowly and sinuously past the kitchen table, each velvet paw touching the floor like a caress. The doctor picked her up gently and began a leisurely examination while crooning to her in some unknown tongue. She was completely under his spell and reacted not at all when her temperature was taken or when the injection went into her flank. "Here are some tablets," he said. "Follow the dosage on the label."

Qwilleran said, "Your bedside manner is admirable, John."

The doctor shrugged off the compliment with his eyebrows and a flicker of a smile. "How's your ankle, Qwill?"

"On the mend somewhat. I appreciate your coming up here, though."

"Glad to do it. Come down the hill and have a drink with us Sunday afternoon, if our house hasn't washed away."

The Siamese followed the doctor to the door as if reluctant to see him go.

"Our next visitor," Qwilleran told them, "comes bearing turkey, so treat him with diplomacy. But don't expect any dinner from me after stuffing yourselves with my Chocolate Whoppers!"

While they waited for Bill Treacle, Sabrina Peel called to say she had some floor pillows for the living room. Might she drop them off the next afternoon? She would like to arrive late and then take Qwilleran to dinner at the restaurant called Pasta Perfect.

"You'll have to drive," he said. Tve sprained my ankle."

"Hope you don't object to sharing a town wagon with drapery samples and wallpaper books."

Shortly after six o'clock a car pulled into the parking lot and a smiling Bill Treacle—still exuding pep after an eight-hour shift at the market—appeared at the door with two sacks of groceries. "Hey, you weren't lying!" he said when he saw Qwilleran hobbling with the aid of a stick. "Want me to put this stuff in the refrigerator? Some of it should go in the freezer right away. Okay?"

"First door on the left," Qwilleran instructed him, pointing down the foyer, "and while you're there, help yourself to a beer. You can bring me a ginger ale. We'll sit in the living room."

"This is some barn of a place," the young grocer observed as he started down the hall. When he returned with the drinks he was accompanied by the Siamese, walking beside him like an honor guard, their tails rigidly at attention.

"Friendly brutes, aren't they?" he said.

"Cats are instinctively attracted to a source of energy," Qwilleran explained. "Have a chair, and excuse me if I keep my foot elevated."

"What happened to it?"

"I slipped on some wet leaves."

"There's plenty of those around. I never saw so much rain in June. Let me know if there's anything I can do for you while you're laid up. Okay?"

Qwilleran seized his cue. "There's one thing you could do, Bill. I noticed that Lumpton's Hardware has fax service, and if you'll take some copy and shoot it through tomorrow, I'll be grateful. It's a column I write for my hometown newspaper, and they want to run it Friday."

"Is that your job? Everybody's been wondering who you are and why you're here."